Remember That
by Diary
Summary: Sebastian and Shannon wind up having something resembling a heart-to-heart. Complete. Edited for wonky tenses.


Disclaimer: I do not own Glee.

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She knew the kid had a fake ID.

"Serve that and I call whoever has the power to revoke your liquor license," she warned the bartender as he started to hand the kid the beer.

Sighing, the guy nodded, saying, "Sorry, kid."

The bartender and beer disappeared, and the kid looked at her, his face mild and unafraid. She saw him take in the bruises, and then, shrug. He didn't wince, didn't give her a look of pity, or even look at it with amusement. "Ohio doesn't recognise same-sex marriages," he said. "What's a married woman doing in a gay bar?"

Shannon could have pointed out that the law not recognising marriage doesn't stop a lot of people from wearing wedding bands, but instead, she asked, "What's a fifteen-year-old kid doing in one?"

"Sixteen, and I'm a gay teenager stuck in the middle of a conservative, white bred small town," he answered, flagging the returning bartender down. "Glass of lemon water."

Turning back to her, he said, "And my parents are out of town, so if you plan on telling someone, contact the headmaster of Dalton Academy's for Boys. My name's Sebastian Smythe."

"You're the kid who nearly blinded Blaine Anderson," she said, sharply.

Shrugging, he accepted the lemon water. "It was a prank gone wrong. I wanted to ruin one of Kurt Hummel's outfits."

"That's so much better."

"He has what appears to be an unlimited wardrobe and, from what I've been told of his skills, could have easily made an exact replica of it," he answered, unfazed by her sarcasm.

"Do you think that makes it okay," she asked, tired and frustrated. Some part of her was genuinely curious, but she knew his type. Rich kid, good-looking, always able to weasel out of trouble. She would call Dalton, because however hopeless it would be, she was still an educator. She'd call, and nothing would come of it.

His eyes skirted across her face. "At the time, I thought it would piss him off. I didn't think it would do any lasting damage to anyone. Just a mild annoyance."

"Let's get the green rhino out of the way," she said, wearily. "Say what you have to say about my face, kid."

"It's the pink elephant," he said, utterly confusing her. "And I'm the worst person you could possibly imagine to play domestic abuse counsellor."

"Hey!"

Ignoring that, he continued, "Assuming you haven't lied to everyone about how you got those bruises, I imagine all your loved ones have told you leave, that you aren't alone, and so on. And like the majority of the people who get caught in a bad situation like yours, you still haven't left."

This, she realised, bitterly, was her life, now. Too afraid to go home, sitting in a gay bar, talking to a kid who had absolutely no respect for her authority. She used to be lonely, but she had still managed to be fairly happy. People respected her; she'd even started making friends. Now, the green rhino or pink elephant or whatever wrong-coloured animal it was, was interfering with that, too.

"Thanks for the non-judgement, I guess," she said, glumly.

Pathetic was the only word to describe her.

"It wasn't your fault he was good at hiding," he said, shocking her. Seeing her look, he gave her a small, mirthless smile. "I complain about Lima a lot, but if I talked to my parents, I could leave whenever I wanted. I just can't go back to Paris because they're afraid I'll contact my ex-boyfriend."

"What happened," she asked, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach.

"I like to dance in clubs, and I'm not very picky about my dance partners," he answered, making a small noise that was half-scoff, half-chuckle. "He was jealous, and for a long time, it was just words. Then, one day, it was his fist against my face. I guess that didn't teach me very much, did it? I almost blinded a boy, and when I started to fall for another one, I was so mad when he was trying to get advice on how to make this other boy like him that I insulted him so badly he didn't think he could call me when he was feeling suicidal."

Dave Karofsky, the name popped into her head. Ugly duckling if she ever saw one, big and awkward, prone to shoving Kurt Hummel into lockers. Aside from that, he was an okay kid, good player, quiet, and once Kurt came back, his biggest protector. She had some worry about him being a younger version of Cooter, but he was eighteen and tried to hang himself. Hopefully, his parents were getting him the help he needed, and he'd come out okay. Eventually find a boy he treated right, and who treated him right.

"It isn't supposed to teach you anything besides the fact some people are good at hiding," she said, wondering when humanity became so complicated. "You should get some help kid."

"Therapists are easy to manipulate," he retorted. "I can live with myself; I've never had the urge to hurt somebody I cared about like that," he said, glancing at her face. "Sometimes, emotionally, but not to the point of abuse."

"You're sitting in a gay bar, talking to a middle-aged woman," Shannon pointed out.

"At least, I'm not afraid of going back to Dalton," he answered, not unkindly.

"And there's the judgement."

"I judge him, not you," Sebastian replied. "Has he stopped?"

"Hitting me? Yeah. Only happened once."

"I meant verbally. Take it from someone who knows: Emotional and verbal abuse can do just as much, if not more, harm."

"Thought you weren't in the position to play domestic abuse counsellor."

"I'm not," he agreed. "My qualms about not hurting people I care about have never extended to other people, and I can only imagine what lasting damage I've done."

Before she can answer, a fast song started.

"I'm going to go dance," he said, pushing his half-drank glass away. "There's an annoying pop singer who once sang, 'It doesn't matter how he hurts you, with his hands or with his words, you don't deserve it," he told her as he stood. "Personally, I think that's one song she did right."

With that, he disappeared onto the dance floor. So young, already so jaded, and he had everything going for him that people like her didn't and would never have.

Sighing, she finished her soda and paid her tab, knowing he'd order another beer once she was gone.

She'd talk to Will in the morning, tell him that the realisation it's not always a man hitting a woman had come to her, and that she needed to talk to Kurt and Blaine, Santana and Brittany, and maybe the whole glee club. Tell the boys to get help if they ever felt the urge to hit, explain that a girl hitting a guy or another girl is just as serious, and explain that a boy hitting a boy is, too.

Do all that and hope to God none of them think to ask how it's been going since she supposedly left Cooter.

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Author's Notes: The title comes from a Jessica Simpson song containing the lyric Sebastian quoted. Sebastian's opinion of Jessica Simpson's annoyingness is his, not mine.


End file.
